


Stay Another Season

by ajj



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5170169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajj/pseuds/ajj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life after the fall is neither easy nor pleasant at times, and the first year is perhaps the most difficult to overcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November

The first month after the fall is, to say the least, bad.

The first week Will hardly even remembers, can recall them only in broken fragments of a scattered timeline. He can remember the important bits—coughing seawater out of his lungs, Hannibal checking his wounds, violently pushing Hannibal away until he became too weak to continue, Chiyoh driving them away. The rest is hazy, lost in many hours of sleep and lucidity stolen by painkillers.

He regains most of his consciousness by the time they reach their destination, some desolate cabin lost in between the borders of Maine and Quebec. The weather makes itself highly unpleasant, cold and snowing on most days, which does nothing to improve either of their moods. Supplies arrive on a weekly basis, and Will mentally notes with a scowl that Chiyoh must really love Hannibal, if she's braving the wicked environment weekly to keep them alive. He feels like he should thank her, has many opportunities to do so. He doesn't.

Hannibal is kind and gentle with him, even when such things are rewarded only with coldness and one-word answers. He allows Hannibal to touch him, to dress his wounds, to administer his drugs, though only because he doesn't personally have the knowledge to do it for himself. If he ever feels Hannibal lingers a moment too long or in a place where he needn't be, he makes it known, either by cruel words or unnecessary force. Hannibal never falters, never grows angry. Will resents him even more for that, and rather wishes Hannibal would grow angry enough to kill him.

He doesn't.

What he does instead is cook Will meals as nice as he can with the scarce ingredients they are allowed; he talks to Will, enough for the both of them when he never says so much as two words back; he makes sure to constantly ask Will if he's in any pain or discomfort and can he get him anything?

For the first two weeks Will can't stand it, can't stand his concern and kindness and _love._ He yells when he has the energy and ignores Hannibal when he doesn't. He refuses to sleep in the lone bed beside Hannibal on bad nights, even when sleeping on the couch means shivering from the cold. More than anything, he wishes that Hannibal would give up on him so he wouldn't have to feel guilty about not reciprocating his civility.

Civility that Hannibal never loses, not even when Will picks fights with him, or rather tries to unsuccessfully. They aren't fights about anything in particular; sometimes they're about little things Hannibal did that Will decides to needlessly become irritated by, or sometimes they're about things from years past that Will never grows tired of digging up, no matter how many times he hears the same explanations and hidden apologies from Hannibal.

Only when it becomes clear that he isn't going to get a reaction from Hannibal does he stop. Forced hatred becomes a burden, something Will doesn't bother to keep up with when it gives way to his more real underlying emotions, far from hatred.

On the third week, he decides to _try._ Because that's what Hannibal has been doing all along, trying to make this work, even when both of them were injured and miserable. It isn't doing either of them any good to build a massive wall between them.

He still doesn't speak to Hannibal much, but he begins answering him when he talks and keeps the malice out of his voice. He doesn't lean out of Hannibal's touch and lets his arm fall over him in bed on cold nights when they have to get close. And, on one evening following a particularly okay day, he asks to help Hannibal with dinner. He'd never forget the smile on Hannibal's face, warm and genuine and pure. They cook together, they eat together, they talk together; and for the first time since even before the fall, Will smiles. It's weak and lasts shortly enough that if Hannibal had blinked, he'd have missed it, but it's a smile.

On the fourth week, Will begins voluntarily speaking to Hannibal. It's short, usually, easy questions such as how is he feeling and what's for dinner, and standard polite answers follow. But he doesn't miss the appreciation that shines in Hannibal's eyes, and he notices that the older man seems happier when Will speaks, no longer hollow.

One night as the first month was coming to an end, Will leans his head on Hannibal's shoulder—his good one—and feels brave enough to ask about the future for the first time. "We aren't staying here," he says carefully, not wording it as a question.

"No, we're not," Hannibal replies. He offers nothing else.

"Where are we going?" The _we_ comes out before he realizes, and he knows that his decision has been made.

"Where would you like to go?"

It takes Will by surprise, and all he can do is stare open-mouthed when Hannibal turns to look at him, expecting a response.

"I—I don't—"

"Wherever you would like to go, I will find a way to get us there." 

Will is the first to break eye contact, resuming his previous position. "You're more suited to choose than me," he says. Hannibal makes a noise of acknowledgement and doesn't press further.

Will's words are easy and casual. In his mind, though, the words mean that wherever Hannibal wants to go, he'll eagerly follow.


	2. December

Will only becomes aware of the fact that it's now December when Hannibal mentions it to him in passing. November had been a blur, it seemed, one full of angry tears and repressed emotions. He hopes December will be better. He knows better than to hope for much, considering they're now fugitives, hidden away in a remote cabin until further notice, but he could hope that it doesn't get worse.

They haven't discussed moving since the night Will brought it up. He understands—they're both still recovering, slowly but surely, mentally and physically. Will reads the news too, on the shitty computer with Internet access that only sometimes works. It's weeks before their disappearance is bumped down from the headlines, and even then, side columns detailing the story in full continue to make appearances. They aren't looking for just Hannibal anymore—Will's picture is always there, right next to his, the unflattering mugshot they'd used both on the news and on ugly T-shirt designs after his initial capture. It isn't reassuring, and Will wonders if they'll ever escape from their snowy prison, but it's at least comforting to know that not even the FBI plans on trudging far north in the winter to search for them.

During days when it isn't too cold to be outside for more than five minutes at a time, they take walks. The snow, unpleasant as it is, makes for a beautiful landscape, one they could enjoy together in contented silence. It gives them something to do, and it almost makes them grateful to return home and make disappointing but warm soup. Almost.

On some days they still don't talk much, but it's no longer a silence accompanied by heavy tension; it's a comforting silence, not awkward or uncomfortable at all. Hannibal reads to him on most nights, sometimes a book, sometimes a news article, but to Will it doesn't much matter what he reads. It all has the same calming effect, thanks to Hannibal's accented voice and measured tone. About halfway through the month, Will realizes he no longer has an edge on him around Hannibal. The distrust has all but faded, most ill will going with it. He no longer feels unsafe. Maybe it's unwise—it doesn't matter. He accepts it graciously and makes it known in subtle ways, such as no longer watching Hannibal intently whenever he has a cooking knife in hand.

Hannibal notices. "You are not uneasy around me anymore," he notes one day, conveniently while cooking dinner.

"No," Will agrees after some consideration, "I'm not." There is a pause. "Should I be?"

Hannibal just smiles at him over his shoulder. "You needn't be afraid of me, Will. Not anymore."

He doesn't think about what that means. Hell, it could mean any number of things, too many for him to count and analyze.

Neither one of them speak about the upcoming holidays. Will assumes Hannibal celebrates Christmas, having been to one such Christmas party hosted by him before, but these are new circumstances. He might not have an interest it anymore, at least not in this year, and it isn't like they have the money or resources to exchange gifts or decorate.

Trivial as it is to worry about—or at least, it should be, due to their more pressing concerns—it gives Will a heavy heart to think about not celebrating the holiday. Surviving the month is a holiday in itself for them; it hadn't been at first for Will, but he is no longer cursing all of the gods in the sky for keeping him alive. He also knows, at least in the back of his mind, that this might be their last chance to celebrate Christmas together. There is no returning to normal life after this, and if they are caught or separated, there's no coming back from it. They might not even be alive by next Christmas. They've discussed the possibility of death due to their situation before. He knows the odds.

All they have is each other. He's come to accept that. And he'll be damned if he spends another Christmas alone.

He doesn't know how Hannibal will react to it, but Will spends some of his free time creating a present to the best of his ability. Wood is abundant and Will has some knowledge of whittling from his father and two years of Boy Scouts. He doesn't bother to devise a plan, just picks up a knife and begins carving whenever Hannibal is out or otherwise preoccupied, and eventually, it takes shape. The final product is a heart, smooth and solid, not unlike the one Hannibal had left for him in Italy. Questionable for a gift, maybe, in their current state of relationship, but by the time he finishes he doesn't have enough time to make something new. It would have to do.

Neither mention anything as Christmas Eve comes and goes, but Hannibal does make eggnog from ingredients he'd specifically requested that week and they enjoy it by the fire. They sleep well that night and, when morning light shines through the curtains on Christmas Day, Will wakes to find Hannibal already gone. That isn't particularly unusual; Will's poor sleeping habits have persisted even now, but that and the smell of breakfast drifting into the room makes him hopeful. Hopeful for what, exactly, he doesn't know, but hope is an emotion that doesn't often make itself known to him, so he accepts its presence.

Will removes the wooden heart from his dresser where it had been hidden, runs his thumb over the smooth surface. He'd lost count of how many splinters he got in the process of making the thing, but his efforts shine proud. Maybe a little too proud, he thought.

Will strolls into the kitchen, gift behind his back, to find Hannibal at the stove, wearing a fittingly red sweater. "Merry Christmas," he says, shyer than he intended, and Hannibal turns to face him.

"Merry Christmas, Will." Hannibal's attention returns to the food, but he continues to speak. "I was unsure that you would want to celebrate Christmas this year."

"I did. I do." He removes his hands from behind his back, staring down at his gift, his final chance to trash it and move on. He opts not to. "I made you something, actually."

"Did you?" His back is still turned, but the interested tone gives him away.

"Yes." Will approaches and Hannibal moves to look at him. He holds his hands out, offering the heart to Hannibal, trying not to think about the double meaning. "It's not much, but I didn't exactly have many resources to use."

Hannibal takes it from him, comically gentle, as if a single wrong movement might break it. "To what do I owe you presenting me with a heart?"

He'd assumed he would get a question of that sort. "It's so you don't need to rip mine out of my chest." He smiles ever so slightly, trying to pass it off as a joke, though it has a ring of truth to it. "And that one you gave me in Italy...well, I don't have it anymore. I left it back home." Home isn't the right word, but he doesn't know what word to replace it with.

"But you kept it?" Hannibal inquires, looking pointedly at him. He's rolling the heart in his hand, finger rubbing in circles over it.

"I did." Will's eyes are suddenly pulled to everything in the room except Hannibal's face. "I kept it in my dresser. Never showed it to anyone. I took it out on bad days, when I missed you the most." It's an admission he doesn't mean to make, but he continues. "It kept me from visiting you."

He half expects Hannibal to rub it in his face. He doesn't, and when he returns his eyes to his face, there's a smile there, a genuine one, one he sees only rarely in this new life. "It's a wonderful gift, Will. And I must confess that I got something for you, too. If you'll excuse me."

Heart still in hand, Hannibal strolls out of the room, leaving Will dumbfounded. He had never once expected a gift from Hannibal; he has no idea what the man would have even gotten. 

It doesn't take long for him to realize what the gift is. The pitter-patter of claws on tile floor is enough to get his head to whip in the other direction. Running happily into the kitchen to greet Will is a mangy puppy, light brown and mottled with spots. He can't identify the breed, figures it's a mutt. He loves it immediately. He bends and scoops it up in his arms, only noticing Hannibal smiling contentedly out of the corner of his eye.

"Hannibal," he says over the squirming mass of fur in his arms, "what—? How did you—?"

"Chiyoh picked her up from a shelter in the city." Hannibal moves closer and strokes the dog lightly. "I'll admit, it isn't convenient, with the moves we'll be having to make. But I believed it would make you happy. That was my bigger concern."

"More than happy," Will agrees, grinning into the fur. "I love her, Hannibal. Thank you."

"You'll need to name her."

A number of names run through his head, none appropriate to call a dog that Hannibal had given him. _Molly. Beverly. Abigail._ Tempting, but inappropriate.

"Daisy," he decides thoughtfully. "One of my old dogs' names. She looks like her."

Hannibal nods. Will's eyes are on the dog in his arms, gleaming with joy and appreciation. Hannibal's eyes are not; they are on Will, admiration clear on his face.

The food is cold by the time they get to it. Will feeds some of it to Daisy anyway.

~

The days approach New Year's and they rest. They laze around, taking Daisy for walks when they can. Will adores her. Hannibal cooks grand dinners for days after Christmas ends and Will wonders where that supply of ingredients is coming from, but he doesn't ask, as good as they taste.

On New Year's Eve, they pass bottles of wine between them all evening until the clock strikes twelve, though by the time it does Hannibal isn't sober and neither is Will. They're both there, on the couch watching some special on TV, too drunk to stand and tangled around each other; so when midnight rolls around, Hannibal is the only one there, and his brain chooses _right then_ to remind him that he's not had physical affection in months, and then he's kissing Hannibal like his life depends on it.

Hannibal kisses back, eager and needing like he's been wanting this for months, years, and Will thinks that maybe he has. Between kisses on his lips Will whispers things in Hannibal's ear— _I need you, I want you, I love you._ He doesn't mean it, or so he hopes. It feels right at the time. Hannibal says it back and he enjoys hearing it for some reason.

They fall asleep before they can do anything they'd regret in the morning, but it's still awkward when they awake, laying on top of each other on a too-small couch, both fully remembering last night's events but unwilling to bring it up. Will wants to apologize; it's his fault, he initiated it, he made it awkward. The thing is, he isn't sorry. He doesn't think Hannibal is either. That doesn't solve the problem, but it makes him feel a bit less worse.

December ends with a bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canonically, hannibal looks at will the way will looks at dogs.

**Author's Note:**

> i am on a Roll with post-season 3 things lately. i thought this was a neat idea - it will have 12 chapters, one for each month, starting in november. chapters will likely be short, though they'll vary in length. i hope other people like this idea as much as i do !!


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